


Fate's Own Way

by notyourstrawberrymilk



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Druid!Merlin, Extremely Dubious Consent, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Torture, but it turns into enthusiastic consent, but of the sexy kind, non-con orgasm delay/denial, unconventional torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28543650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourstrawberrymilk/pseuds/notyourstrawberrymilk
Summary: When his father informs Arthur he must choose a queen, Arthur wants to enjoy his last days of freedom. On his trip, he is found wounded by druids who take him back to their camp where he is tortured (for lack of a better word) for information on Camelot by the chief druid, a man named Emrys. Despite their unconventional relationship (and having never seen the man with his own eyes), Arthur begins to fall for Emrys and the druid way of life. But when Emrys is wounded by a search party of his own knights, Arthur must decide where his true loyalties lie.***WARNING! Non-con sexual elements and graphic depictions of violence.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, programs!  
> I've been meaning to write this fic for a while, but somehow forgot about it until cleaning out an old notebook, when I immediately fell in love with the idea again. There's not much I want to say here that isn't spoilers, and since the summary did a lot of that already, let's get right into it! I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> As always, my work is not beta-read, so any mistakes are my own. I do not own Merlin or any of the characters, no copyright infringement is intended!

Arthur felt his heart sinking as low as the soles of his worn-out leather boots. Uther Pendragon didn’t call his son and heir to council with trivial matters, and he had been more serious than ever towards Arthur as of late, so Arthur could only assume the worst. He nodded in greeting towards the guards posted outside the throne room, took a deep breath, and made his entrance, hoping his face was schooled into one of respectful impassivity. The King was seated upon his throne, speaking with the court physician and royal bookkeeper in hushed voices, as though trading the most intimate of secrets. They didn’t even notice the crown prince’s arrival until Arthur cleared his throat, the sound echoing loudly in the cavernous room. 

“Good morning, my lord. You sent for me?”

“Ah, Arthur! I have wonderful news for you. Come.” 

Arthur swallowed around the lump of anxiety holding his throat hostage and came forwards, perching himself at his father’s side. “What is it, father?” he asked, not entirely sure he would be pleased with an answer.

Uther motioned to Geoffrey, the book-keeper, who handed him a small stack of opened scrolls. Arthur chanced a glance at the seals and noticed with worry that they each bore the crests of powerful neighboring royal families. “In my hands, I have the acceptance to the finest banquet Camelot has seen since your mother’s betrothal to me, for it is at this ball you will choose your queen. I have made sure they are suitable in stature for you, have no fear of that. Whatever union you choose will benefit both kingdoms greatly.”

Arthur’s heart sunk lower still. “Father, I don’t feel I’m ready to take on marriage, can it not wait? There are other ways I serve the kingdom, ways I’m much more adept at than a union. I’m flattered by the responses but -”

“Do not be flattered, Arthur,” Uther rounded on him, the happiness turning cold. “You will make a choice. If I say it is time to secure the Pendragon lineage then that is what you shall do. You are the crowned prince of Camelot, I cannot have you wandering around as a bachelor simply because you prefer to knock swords with those under your command instead of finding a suitable queen.”

_Knocking swords_ , Arthur thought. _Oh, father. If only you knew the truth_. Under different circumstances, Arthur may have laughed at the unintended implications of his father’s choice of words, but as it was, he could barely breathe. “But father, I -”

“Arthur, this matter is not open for discussion! I am commanding you as your King that you will attend the ball, you will find a queen, and you will marry her! And with any luck, you’ll rear an heir more obedient than yourself. You will not disobey me in this matter, is that clear?” 

Arthur closed his mouth with a snap. Anger flared in him, but not trusting himself to speak, he simply nodded. 

“The celebration will be held in five days' time, and I expect you to be prepared. You may go now.”

“Yes, father,” he gritted out, turning on his heel and hurrying out of the chamber. 

He walked hastily to the far side of the castle, trying to put as much distance between himself and his father as possible. He paced the outside terrace, kicking the small stones in his path to alleviate his frustration with his lot in life. When that didn’t work, he snapped at a guard to ready his horse. Riding his horse had always helped relieve his stress. Llamrei was the finest mare in the far kingdoms, and through her, Arthur could glimpse the barest glimpse of freedom in his otherwise strict and controlled royal duties. She provided him the opportunity to slip away, to feel the wind in his hair and the sun on his face, and to simply enjoy existence for a moment. Arthur had always felt caged at Camelot, the burden of duty fell heavy on his brow even as his crown glittered with the illusion of luxury. If this was the last days he was a free man, he would do as he pleased, his father be damned! He handed a note intended for his father about his intentions to take an overnight ride outside the city to the stable hand. As he mounted his steed, he caught sight of his father in the window above the courtyard. Without acknowledging his ever-looming presence, Arthur took the reins and was off. 

As the towers of Camelot disappeared in the distance behind him, he felt the weight rise from his shoulders and be blown away with the wind. The countryside met Llamrei’s hooves, throwing the smell of moist dirt into the fresh air. It smelled like homecoming and freedom. The scents of dirt and rain were a few of Arthur’s favorites because they signified nature’s sovereignty over man. Not even his father could control the mighty storms or gentle rains, nor could he change the flowing of the rivers that wound their own way through the forests of his kingdom. A man could take from the soil, could determine people’s access to the grain, but it was up to the soil and the seed if it was to be fertile or destitute. The laws of society had no effect on the will of nature. Man had no power here, not in the wilderness away from citadels and kingdom walls. Arthur craved that kind of submission to the elements. Instead of being afraid at the prospect of lose of control, he was relieved by it. His illusion of control had been shattered long ago, and out here in the wild, he could let the pretenses fall away like the roads behind him fell back into the horizon. He didn’t know how far he rode, and he didn’t care. He had enough provisions for at least a two-day journey, his sword, and his steed. He only hoped his father didn’t believe him to be running away, because even though the idea was tempting he knew his duty to his people was to serve them as their King. Arthur understood that burden of the title meant sacrifices, but he simply didn’t feel ready to give up the life he had to marriage and an heir. Was there no more to his life than the succession of a lineage? 

Lost in thought, Arthur didn’t realize the sun had begun to set until the hazy darkness of twilight began to creep towards him. Stopping at a stream just inside the treeline, he tethered Llamrei to an elm tree and splashed some of the water in his face. The near glacial temperature of the liquid brought him back to his senses in time to hear a twig snap in the underbrush behind him. He whirled around to find a burly man in worn plainclothes leering gleefully at him.

“Hello, princess. What is someone as handsome as yourself doing without an escort?” the man said. He fingered his belt, to which was attached a long sword. Arthur was sure he caught a glimpse of metal on the opposite hip from the sword as well. 

He quickly calculated several options, but the position of the offending man between himself and his horse cut the chances of a successful escape down to almost nothing. He would have to be incredibly lucky to make it out of the situation against the armed man without his own sword or be lucky enough to make it to his steel. He mentally cursed himself for his lack of foresight. He was a knight of Camelot, he had been trained in combat and survival since he was old enough to lift a training sword, and yet he had allowed himself to become distracted while traveling alone. His father was going to be furious if he found out. 

“Not a talker, hmm? That’s fine by me, I don’t particularly care for chatty ones. You’ll be much easier to sell if you’re quiet-like.” 

Arthur’s breathing stopped for a moment at the man’s words. He knew of the slave trade - his father had ignored it unless the victims were concerned with those of noble families - but he’d never encountered a trader. The idea of people being sold like cattle never appealed to him, even more so when it was he who was to be treated as livestock. Making a split-second decision, he rushed the man, hoping his extra weight made him slower so he could fake him out and get to his horse. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side today and the man saw it coming. As Arthur made to the right of him only to double-back to the left, he stuck out his leg and tripped him. Arthur crashed to the ground, cursing. A heavy boot landed between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the forest floor. No amount of thrashing could dislodge the heavy man, and it only served to make him angry. With the hilt of his sword, he knocked Arthur on the back of the head, hard enough for Arthur’s vision to swim and his head to loll. He felt nauseous, both from the blow and the knowledge of what awaited him. 

“That’s a good lass,” the man cooed at him, “just lie there. I would hate to have to mar that pretty face of yours. It would spoil your price.” 

“N-no!” Arthur stammered out, the words like lead weights in his mouth. 

He clawed at the earth beneath him to scramble away, but the man knocked him upside the head once more. His vision blackened for a second and he groaned despite himself. His whole body throbbed with pain, and it sounded like someone was ringing church bells inside his head. The man leaned down over him, close enough for Arthur to smell the staleness of his hot breath, but he was too weak from the blows to fight back. He huffed something into his ear, but Arthur couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t focus.

Suddenly, a blinding light flashed towards the man, and Arthur felt the weight of him lift from his back. His mind screamed at him to get up and run, but his body was heavy, wobbly as he attempted to lift himself from the ground. A woman appeared in front of him. Her long black hair flowed like a river in Arthur’s unfocused eyes, standing out starkly from her pale skin and dusty lilac dress. She took his head in her hands, folding him into her lap. Her fingers brushed the hair from his face, brushing against the back of his head. Arthur was almost overcome by the urge to be sick, and he snarled in warning at her. 

“William, he’s hurt!”

A man with mousy hair knelt beside her. He began examining Arthur’s eyes and then his head. “We need to get him help. Emrys will know what to do. I’ll lift him, Freya, you grab the horse.”

The girl nodded and before Arthur could attempt to protest, he was hoisted like a sack over the man’s - William’s - shoulder. He heard Llamrei whinny nervously. Arthur’s vision was blackening around the edges, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he passed out completely.

“Will, wait!” The girl called. She rushed over to them, holding Arthur’s cloak. She unfolded it to reveal the Pendragon crest before throwing it to the ground in disgust. “He’s a knight of Camelot. We should leave him here to die, he would do the same to us!”

Arthur tried to look at her but the anger on her face was getting blurrier by the second. His eyes were unfocused, and he could feel the call of the void, that peaceful blackness of sleep overtaking him.

William shook his head. “No, we take him to Emrys. He’ll decide his fate.”

And with that, Arthur lost consciousness. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I have the first part of the story up, I figured I owed you lovely readers a longer chapter. So, here it is!
> 
> Warning, this chapter contains rape/non-con elements. Please be safe <3

Arthur woke to the sound of voices from afar. He had been propped up in a seated position, his legs curled to the side, and tied with his hands behind his back with thick ropes attached to a wooden shaft of some kind. He panicked about his lack of sight for a moment before he realized he must have been blindfolded, which struck him as odd considering he couldn’t feel the usual wisp of fabric across his nose. His mouth was as dry as cotton and his head felt as though it had been smashed between a pair of boulders, not to mention the ache in his shoulders and neck from the position his captors had set him in. He wriggled his hands, trying to feel if he could reach the knot in the ropes, but to no avail. They were tight enough to completely restrict his movement but not to cut into the flesh of his wrists, which he was grateful for. Unfortunately, without being able to touch or see his surroundings, Arthur was unable to begin formulating an escape plan. There was nothing to do but wait quietly. He didn’t have to wait long before he heard the rustling of a tent flap.

“Oi, you awake in there?” called the male voice from the forest. Arthur lolled his head to the side where the voice came from and frowned. “I’ll take that as a yes. Water?”

Arthur hesitated briefly before nodding. If they wanted to kill him, they would have left him with the slave trader. A wooden cup was brought to his lips and he gulped down the refreshing liquid.

“Whoah, slow down, mate! You’ve taken quite the nasty hit to the noggin, and I don’t want to be the one charged with cleaning up if you get sick. Just take it nice and slow, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Arthur heeded his words, sipping the next time the water cup was offered. “Thank you,” he said afterward.

“No problem. The name’s Will,” the man said, taking the empty cup away from him. 

“Arthur,” he replied. 

Will whistled, the sound splitting Arthur’s head and making him want to groan. “Arthur, huh? We knew you were a knight of Camelot from your crest, but we never expected the crowned prince to be traveling alone. What brought you so far out of the citadel?”

Arthur frowned and didn’t answer. He’d already given too much away by giving his name.

“Eh, suit yourself. Emrys has ways of making you talk, I just figured I’d try and be friendly first. Not a big fan of royals myself.” Will said, and Arthur was sure he could sense him shrug. “I’ll inform Emrys you’re awake.”

With that, he heard Will leave and he was alone once more, but not for long. 

“Arthur Pendragon,” a man said. His voice wasn’t as deep as Will’s, but it was much harder, more commanding than friendly. Arthur could only imagine how imposing the man must look to have a voice like that, one that boomed loud enough to take up the entire room. 

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” Arthur tried for nonchalance. 

“I am Emrys. I’m sure you have questions, but first, I have questions of my own. What was a Pendragon doing so close to druid land, alone?”

Arthur sighed.  _ Well, that explains the bolt of light I saw _ , he thought. “I didn’t know I had encroached upon your land, it was not my intent. I was unaware there were druids here.”

“Oh, I’m sure. Why would a Pendragon have any interest in the druids?” Emrys spat his name like it was offensive. “I find it hard to believe you had no idea as to where our encampment was. I find it more believable that you were sent as a scout, to determine our location so as to gather reinforcements and force us out. Lucky for us you ran into some trouble.”

“I am not a scout! I happened through your land on accident, I told you I had no idea there were druids here. I wouldn’t have found out either, but as you said, I ran into some trouble and your people helped me.”

Arthur felt a puff of hot air on his face, carrying the scent of honey and mint to his nose. Emrys remained quiet, but his breath kept ghosting over Arthur’s cheek. Arthur turned his face towards him, lifting his head high to jut out his chin. 

“I don’t happen to care what you believe, I only request that you release me. I am the crowned prince of Camelot and I do not answer to the druids.”

Emrys laughed at that, low and menacing. “Unfortunately for you, Crowned Prince, I cannot let you go. As soon as you would return to Camelot, your King would be sending you back to wipe us out. You’ll be staying here.”

“You cannot do this!” Arthur shouted in frustration.

“You have no authority here, Arthur Pendragon!” Emrys’ voice boomed, and Arthur felt the air around him grow cold and dark. He shivered in spite of himself, afraid of the power the man seemed to hold. “I answer to the Earth and my people answer to me. It is my duty to protect them, and your presence in these woods is a harbinger of doom. I will not let my people fall prey to Uther.” 

“You intend to keep me here as your prisoner? In a few day's time, Camelot will mark my absence and send search parties of knights.”

“They will not find us, you can be sure of that. Do not fear for your safety, Pendragon. My people do not harm those who have not harmed us. You will be free to walk the camp, but you will be kept under watch so I do not suggest attempting to leave.”

“Or what?” Arthur said angrily. “You just stated you will not harm me. Is that to be broken if I intend to leave?”

Emrys chuckled again. “I said my people do not harm, but I am free to use any means I see fit. Although, there are other methods than violence. I suppose that, as a knight, you wouldn’t know that. You see, my people are quite fond of pleasure,” as he spoke, Arthur felt fingers trail up his chest to his chin, holding his face in a vice-like grip. “I know how to bend a man to my will.”

“What do you intend to do to me?” Arthur risked asking. The slight tremor in his voice betrayed his nervousness.

“It’s up to you if you truly wish to find out.” With that, he was released, and he felt Emrys step back. “I shall send Freya to untie you and to remove the enchantment I have placed over your eyes. Once I return, I will have the enchantment placed over your eyes again.”

“Why?”

“Because I see fit,” was his response. “I shall be back at dusk to begin your questioning. If you attempt to leave, I will be informed, and I will be forced to make accommodations to my hospitality.” 

Emrys left without another word, taking the cold and dark with him so that the air in the tent was warm once more. Arthur let out a frustrated noise and tried in vain to release his hands. His father was going to be furious! Not only had Arthur taken leave due to emotional reasons, but he had also allowed himself to be captured by druids, Uther’s most hated enemies. The anger with which the girl, Freya, had bestowed on him made perfect sense now. Uther was famous for decimating magical peoples during what historians called the Great Purge, and the druids were sought out most of all for what his father labeled as an unnatural affinity towards Earthly magic.  _ No man should have dominion over Earth _ , his father had told him once.  _ That is why the druids are so dangerous.  _ While Arthur agreed with the sentiment, he did not condone his father’s brutal methods of disposing of those with magical abilities. His own court physician had been a sorcerer and a very famous one at that. But Uther had weighed his value and found it more than he could lose, so Gaius had been spared so long as he never used magic again. It was something that could not be said for any other sorcerer or creature of the Old Religion that Uther had deemed a risk to the livelihood of Camelot. It was the darkest year in Camelot’s history, as Uther purged his lands of any trace of magic. Few escaped to other kingdoms or the unclaimed wilderness, and those that did would never risk their lives to return to Camelot for any reason but to seek Uther’s life as penance for his deeds against humanity. Arthur had been witness to several executions, been a part of numerous hunts for magical folks who dared return. He had no choice but to follow his father’s commands, had never dared to question his orders or decisions. Arthur wondered briefly if he would tell his father of the druid encampment’s location upon his return to Camelot. 

A rustling of the tent flap roused him from his musings and he heard a woman muttering what sounded like an odd language. The ropes dropped from his wrists, but he remained still, not wanting to spook Freya before she lifted the spell from his eyes. She came closer, still muttering, and touched her fingertips to his eyes. He felt a warmth emanating from the contact that spread through his face, and suddenly he was able to open his eyes. Freya stood before him looking unimpressed, her mouth drawn to a thin line. She was just as petite as he remembered from his bludgeoned haze. 

“Thank you,” Arthur said, trying to sound sincere. He really was grateful for the restoration of his sight, and he took the opportunity to take in his surroundings.

The tent was rather large, the cloth walls a light buttery beige to allow for natural light to filter through. The ground was soft dirt and moss, but there was a nest of animal skins to the farthest corner and a table with a chair to the other side. A small wooden chest sat beside the table, and upon the table was a deep blue runner with gold edging with a thick tome atop it. The pillar Arthur had been bound to was one of five, one in each corner and the last in the middle to create a lofty fabric ceiling. Although the construction of the tent was crude, it had a homey and inviting appearance. It was simple, yet had an air of easy luxury about it. The light colors made the tent appear more spacious, and with little furnishings, there was more room to move about inside. 

“This is where you’ll be staying while you’re with us. Emrys was insistent that you be treated fairly, more like a guest than a prisoner,” Freya sniffed indignantly. “Come. I’ll show you where you’ll be working.”

Arthur swung his head around to look at her. “Working?” he said, incredulously. 

Freya rolled her eyes as she led him out of the tent and into the open. “It may be different where you come from, Pendragon, but here we all work for our bread. If no one worked, there would be no bread. There would be no fire, no shelter, no clothes. So you will work. Maybe it will teach you to appreciate the luxuries given to you, and the people who provide them.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest her statement, but no words came out. Around him was a small bustling village of tents, with people hurrying about and chatting. He saw people weaving fibers, washing clothes, and chopping firewood. In the center of the space was a large table, upon which were fruits and vegetables and curing meats being prepared for supper. Both women and men worked together on every task, unlike in Camelot where the tasks were separated by gender and type. The smell of roasting meat and bubbling soups made Arthur’s stomach growl in hunger, and he realized he hadn’t eaten since he left the kingdom. Embarrassed, he placed a hand to his abdomen and hoped Freya hadn’t heard. She rolled her eyes at him again but asked a woman to bring a platter of food so Arthur could eat. 

“You’ll need the energy for work,” she explained. 

Arthur was surprised when the woman returned with a plate full of bread, meat, and cheese. She also held out a pear for him, which he took, thanking her. She smiled at him and turned back to her own work. Arthur ate happily, the bread freshly baked and warm on his tongue. It was soft enough to melt in his mouth, and Arthur had never had anything so delicious. The meats were seasoned lightly, and paired well with the variety of cheeses. When Arthur bit into the pear, the juices leaked from his mouth and down his chin. He hummed in delight and closed his eyes for the briefest moment to fully enjoy the ripe flavor of the fruit. When he was finished, which was too soon for his liking, Freya handed the platter to a man washing the cutlery. Arthur followed her without question, trying to take in as much of the camp as they passed. 

Freya stopped before an unoccupied wood chopping block and turned to him. “This is your station for the day. I’m sure you don’t need to be taught how to chop firewood.” Arthur shook his head, and Freya handed him the ax. “Mordred will keep an eye on you, so try not to hurt yourself. Emrys is our healer so you wouldn’t get treatment until he returns.” 

“Where is Emrys?” Arthur asked. He didn’t really expect an answer, but Frya shrugged.

“He’s in council with the Dragon.”

She walked away, leaving Arthur stunned. He turned to the young man next to him, who must have been Mordred. He had shaggy black hair that curled around his ears, and a handsome face. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement at Arthur’s obvious shock. He stuck his hand out, and Arthur took it.

“Mordred,” was all he said. His voice rumbled in his chest and made Arthur’s stomach clench pleasantly. 

“Arthur,” he supplied.

“I know,” Mordred smiled. His tone was light but curious. “You’re all anyone can talk about. We don’t often receive visitors,and we’ve never entertained a royal from Camelot.” 

Arthur sighed and took a large log from the pile to their left which was full of wood in need of splitting. He placed it on the chopping block and swung the ax down heavily, splintering the log in half, effortlessly. Mordred stood and stared at him, obviously waiting for some kind of reply. Arthur turned the halves to quarters, placing them gingerly on the neat stack of firewood before grabbing another log from the opposite pile. He swung again, fueled by the frustration that the other man seemed intent to watch him work.

“If you have something to say, don’t be shy. Spit it out,” Arthur said, the irritation evident in his voice and clipped words. 

Mordred’s expression softened further and Arthur felt briefly ashamed of himself. This man wasn’t trying to pester him, so why had he reacted so defensively towards him? His head ached and Arthur was confused by the variances with which he was treated by the druids. His father had always taught him not to trust magical folks, and it was hard to deny his lifetime of training. Arthur would never dream to take on so many people by himself, let alone those with magical abilities, so the only thing he could do was be as gracious to them as he could until he was released or could make an escape. 

“It’s alright, Arthur,” Mordred said, just as Arthur opened his mouth to apologise to him. “You can’t have had an easy time, and I’m sure this is all very new for you. But I promise, we want nothing from you. We ask nothing of you but to stay for our own protection. I understand that seems selfish, but what would you do in our stead, my lord? Most who come here do so for either of two purposes: to join us or to kill us.” 

Arthur nodded, even as he internally rolled his eyes. “And which do you believe of me?”

He was surprised by the warmth that graced Mordred’s face as the corners of his mouth turned up gently in a smile. “We haven't decided yet, my lord. But I believe it to be the former. I think that Emrys believes it to be as well, otherwise, he would have instructed Freya and Will to take you back into the forest after he had healed you instead of allowing you to stay in our sanctuary. But,” he added, taking a log and splitting it into quarters with one swing. Arthur watched his eyes flash golden for the briefest of moments before they settled back to their natural deep blue. “Only time will tell.” 

-

Arthur spent the morning splitting numerous logs until blisters formed on his hands, which would soon develop into another layer of calluses. Arthur didn’t mind. He preferred having the hands of a laborer than a fair maiden, for he believed his worn hands told those who shook them that he was not afraid of hard work. He was a prince by birth - and subsequently a knight of the realm - but he chose to labor with his men, working alongside the people he would someday rule. He wished to understand their daily lives instead of hiding behind the luxury of his titles. In Uther Pendragon’s eyes, the people were worthless, their entire existence meant to be ruled by a firm hand. That was their duty, the duty of a king. Arthur disagreed. He knew too many royals who were out of touch with their peoples, who were ignorant of their lives in any other capacity than as cogs in the wheels that kept the kingdom running smoothly. The people were what made the kingdom prosperous, the King only served to protect and guide them. Without the people, there was no fiber for clothing, no grain for bread, no wood for warmth. Take away his people and a king was nothing more than a man himself. But one does not speak of such things to Uther, and try as he might, Arthur had never been able to get through to his father about their differing ideas. Uther treated him like a disobedient child, only the rod was replaced with heavy words of disappointment that cut Arthur to his core, just as they were intended to. 

The only one who seemed to understand his plight was his half-sister, Morgana, for she had been on the receiving end of his fury almost as many times as Arthur. Yet unlike him, she remained steadfast in her convictions, holding herself to higher standards than Uther ever could. Arthur’s heart leapt for joy each time she stood up for the people when he could not, and he wished he had her heart, for it was larger than any he’d ever encountered before. Arthur decided she would like life amongst the druids. She would appreciate their connection to the land and each other. Arthur wished she was here with him, but felt foolish for doing so. As much as he was being treated fairly he was still a prisoner, unable to leave for threat of punishment. He could never wish that for Morgana. 

Once he and Mordred had finished their pile of firewood, the chopped quarters stacked neatly to the side, they broke for food and water. The sun sat high in the sky, signaling that it was midday, beating down upon them as they took shelter from its rays beneath a large apple tree. Together they harvested the ripe fruit and Arthur moaned in delight upon biting into the crisp fruit. He did not speak as they ate the apples and bread they had received for their labor, instead he listened to Mordred recount his history with the druids. Listening with rapt attention, Arthur was surprised to find Mordred was of a noble bloodline. After his mother died as a result of his wild magic, his father had taken him away to spare him from Uther’s wrath. He brought him to the forest and begged the land to lead him to the druids, and Emrys heard him. Emrys was no more than a boy himself, but he took the man and his child to their encampment where Mordred grew up learning magic and his father lived out the remainder of his days. Magic, he told Arthur, was innate. Everyone was born with the ability to use it, but only those who studied it or those who were truly gifted could harness it for its full potential. It was the user who willed it to do good or evil, just like any form of power, but the druids were bound to use their magic to benefit others. 

“Just as you are bound to your knightly codes, so are we bound by the laws of the Earth. But only those chosen by the Earth itself can communicate directly. That is why Emrys serves as our leader,” he explained. “I have never seen such powerful magic, and it is because he was given that power by the Earth.”

“So, Emrys is your king, the king of the druids?” Arthur asked.

Mordred smiled kindly. “Not quite; Emrys is a sort of vessel for the will of the Earth. He is more akin to a knight, or rather a servant, than a king.”

Arthur nodded, even though he did not quite understand. 

-

They returned to the main encampment and Mordred gave him over to Freya before taking his leave, but not before thanking Arthur for his time and work. Arthur was sad to see him go, as he had taken a liking to the dark-haired man. Conversation came easily with Mordred, whereas with others like Freya it was stilted and sour. Freya led him back to the tent in silence, only speaking to him once they entered the minimal privacy the canvas walls provided. 

“I will need to bind your hands and close your eyes again,” she said without emotion. “Emrys is due back at any moment.”

Arthur wanted to lash out, even though he knew she was only doing as she was told. “I don’t understand why I am allowed to see everyone in the camp besides him.”

Freya paid no heed to him, saying, “Because that is what Emrys wishes. Now hold out your hands.”

He did so, muttering all the while. It wasn’t until she reached her hands to his face that he reared back, suddenly afraid. “What if the spell doesn’t come off?”

“Hush, Pendragon,” she rolled her eyes. “You will not be blinded forever.”

She spoke, this time in a language Arthur did not understand. He closed his eyes as she reached for him once again, and the darkness became permanent. He bit his tongue against the noise of protest that almost escaped him. He had never done well in darkness, always irrationally afraid of that which cannot be seen. Bandits and opposing knights rarely bother with blindfolds for which Arthur is always thankful for, because the idea of having one of his senses taken from him unnerved him more than he cared to admit. As a knight and a warrior, he relied heavily on his eyesight. To have it so easily rendered unusable was frightening. 

“Come, lie down,” Freya said after she released his face. 

She took his hand and led him to the pile of furs he had seen earlier, helping him to his knees so he could lie on his side. The furs were plush and soft beneath his head. They smelled familiar, like honey and clover, mint and… something Arthur couldn’t quite identify. He heard Freya bid him goodnight before traveling the short distance to the opening of the tent and closing it behind her, leaving him alone once more. Arthur could still hear the bustling of the druids outside, preparing for their feast. He briefly wondered if this was what the kitchens sounded like in Camelot or if it was as silent and joyless as the rest of the world under Uther’s thumb, as though pleasant chatter and laughter were punishable by the sword. He found the white noise soothing, the happiness in the air warming him as though he was basking in the sunlight. He was used to stone walls and a chill that you could feel in your bones, not the open, soothing atmosphere of the druids. He didn’t know how long he laid there, content to listen to the life outside himself, but he was startled when he heard someone calling Emrys’ name in greeting. The fond greetings and laughter from the imposing man startled him further, for he had only heard his voice dark and hardened when speaking to Arthur. It made something in his chest tighten to know he would probably never be privileged to receive a greeting like that from Emrys, but he understood the need to keep prisoners in line with steel and strength. There was no room for comfort when dealing with an enemy.

“Pendragon,” the cool voice said as it entered his sanctuary. “I heard you worked well today. My people thank you.”

Arthur remained quiet, the tightening of his lips the only indication he had heard or acknowledged the other man.

“I have brought your dinner. Come, sit up and let me feed you.”

“I do not need to be spoon-fed like a child,” Arthur snapped, although he did rouse himself from the comfortable nest, as gracefully as he could with bound hands. “I am more than capable of feeding myself.”

“What, was there no appointed servant for stuffing the Crowned Prince’s mouth?”

Arthur knew what Emrys meant, but couldn’t help the blush at his own implications. “If you would untie my hands-”

“No. You will either allow me to feed you or you will go hungry. The choice is up to you.”

“You mean to make a fool of me,” he said, and Emrys chuckled darkly.

“If I wished to make a fool of you I have more effective methods than keeping you fed,  _ my lord. _ But if you are ready to sacrifice your health for your pride…” 

Arthur’s stomach chose that moment to rumble in protest, causing Emrys to let out a full bellied laugh. The sound was such a contrast to what Arthur expected that he didn’t mind. Emrys’ laugh was beautiful, like the chiming of church bells, sturdy and strong. The tense atmosphere in the room lightened and Arthur couldn’t help but smile himself.

“The mind may be willing, but the flesh is weak,” Emrys said when he recovered from his laughing fit. 

“Since my body has betrayed me, I would be making a fool of myself if I were to refuse your kind assistance. It does smell wonderful,” Arthur added.

Emrys hummed in response, lifting a spoonful of vegetables in sauce to Arthur’s eager mouth. They didn’t speak any more as Emrys continued to feed him and he was grateful for the silence. He savored the slices of meat, the spiced vegetables, the bread. The unique flavors of each morsel burst to life on his palette, causing him to groan in delight. The other man chuckled almost every time Arthur let a satisfied noise slip from his lips, but Arthur couldn’t bring himself to mind. The meal was over far too quickly for his liking but not without leaving Arthur full.

“Playtime is over,” Emrys said once Arthur had taken the last bite of food, and just like that the lighthearted atmosphere charged once again. Arthur swallowed around the lump in his throat that formed at the menacing tone, but remained still, waiting. “Since you were of use today, and I’m feeling generous, I think I’ll let you decide your fate. So, Arthur Pendragon, which shall it be: pleasure or pain?”

“I don’t understand,” Arthur said, confused. 

“Pleasure or pain,” Emrys repeated. “Tick, tock, Arthur. If you can’t decide I’ll have to choose for you.”

“Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“I’ll give you one more chance,” he said, close enough for Arthur to smell the sweetness of his breath, to feel it ghost over his lips in a gentle caress. 

Arthur felt something inside of himself reaching out, whispering at him, telling him something he couldn’t understand. Heat pooled in his belly, his chest, his cheeks. His senses were filled with sweet mint and honey, suffocating every thought he had in the delightful smell. He opened his mouth and heard himself as though he was listening to a stranger.

“Pleasure.”

He could practically hear the smirk in the other man’s voice as he said, “The pleasure is mine, your majesty.”

He moved away, speaking to someone outside. He said something in the odd language Freya had used earlier, but when he spoke, a thrill went up Arthur’s spine.  _ Was that… magic? _ He recalled the way Mordred’s eyes had flashed gold when he used magic and wondered if Emrys’ did the same. He wondered what color his eyes naturally were. He didn’t have long for his thought to wander before Emrys was back, catching Arthur off-guard by pushing him back into the nest of furs.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” he said, his hands holding Arthur down by his shoulders. Arthur tried to struggle but Emrys only muttered in the language of magic again, stilling him with fear. “You’re going to tell me what I need to know by answering my questions truthfully, and only then will I let you orgasm. I have a spell tied to you that will allow me to see if you are lying, so I suggest you make this easy and don’t bother with misinformation. Oh, and I’ve placed us in a silencing charm so feel free to be as loud as you like.”

“What?” Arthur started, but the sound of Emrys spitting and the hand worming its way into his breeches stopped him short with an unbidden moan. To his horror, he felt himself begin to harden as a warm hand curled around his sex. “Stop, please!”

“Oh no, Arthur. I asked you, pleasure or pain, and this was your choice,” the other man said.

Arthur sobbed as the hand began to pump his cock. “I didn’t know! Please, I don’t want this!”

“Don’t you?” A harsh squeeze accompanied the statement, forcing a gasp from Arthur. He began struggling in earnest now, but Emrys spoke harshly, effectively binding him into stillness with magic. “Your body betrays you, Pendragon. Don’t fret, crowned prince, it’s only natural. Give me what I need and I’ll return the favor.” 

Emrys’ hand moved in earnest now, and Arthur couldn’t help the way his traitorous body responded to the attention. He thickened fully in Emrys’ warm palm, gasping at the harsh friction that sparked heat in his belly. His hands clutched at his rope bindings, desperate to find purchase in something to ground himself. His cock leaked precome, and Emrys swiped his slit with a thumb to gather the beads of liquid to increase the slick drag of his hand, all the while murmuring in Arthur’s ear, catching the lobe between his teeth and tugging until Arthur moaned. 

Suddenly, the hand let go and Arthur swore, trying to buck into the empty air, straining against the magic holding him in place.

“Why were you traveling through our lands alone?” Emrys asked, his voice soft and even.

Arthur shook his head and bit his lip, refusing to answer. Emrys squeezed the base of his cock, delaying his orgasm by almost completely deflating his pleasure. Once Arthur’s body had calmed, he started again, spitting in his hand and pumping Arthur with long, languid strokes. Arthur’s panting breaths were the only sound echoing loudly in his own ears as he tried to remain in control of himself, but each time Emrys swiped his thumb over his slit, his breathing hitched and his control cracked. He was so close he could feel the way his stomach tightened, coiling like a spring ready to be released. 

Again, Emrys stopped his ministrations and asked, “Why were you traveling alone?”

Arthur snarled at him, baring his teeth and once more refusing to answer. They kept at it for what felt like an eternity, each time Arthur got close enough to orgasm Emrys would grip him firmly and stave him off, increasing Arthur’s desperation. He asked several questions, none of which he received an answer for, for which Arthur was proud. But his pride came at a cost, as his body was denied and his agitation grew. Emrys was patient in taking apart his resolve. He never raised his voice, asking his questions in the same cool tone which drove Arthur mad. He murmured in his ear about how easy it would be to just give in, to tell him what he wanted and then Arthur could come. The need to release made Arthur sob every time he was denied.

He knew he couldn’t last like this much longer, but he was saved by Emrys releasing him and repeating his first question. “This is your last chance, Pendragon. Why were you traveling alone through our lands?”

Arthur whimpered but kept his mouth shut resolutely, shaking his head. 

Emrys sighed. “So be it,” he said. 

He lifted the charms from Arthur before throwing him roughly from the furs and dousing him with icy water. Arthur yelled in surprise, shivering on the dirt floor in wet clothes with his breeches still unlaced, his cock having been exposed to the frigid torrent. His hands were still bound by ropes and his eyes remained unseeing. Tears of frustration spilled down his cheeks. Emrys threaded gentle fingers into his sopping hair, offering comfort and crouching down beside him. He dried him, being careful to ignore Arthur’s sex. Wrapping him in a warm fur, he tucked him back into the nest and brushed the hair away from his face.

“You will not touch yourself, or I shall know. We’ll begin again tomorrow,” he said. His voice was commanding, but softened when he said, “Good night, Arthur.”

Arthur made no comment, continuing to shiver inside his fur blanket. Once he knew the man was gone, he let the tears fall freely from his eyes, sobbing into the fur to muffle the sound and crying himself to sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for this chapter taking as long as it did, I've been super busy with work and school, plus some health issues as the cherry on top. I'm so happy to finally get this one out to you lovely readers <3 thank you all for the kind comments, they keep me going!

_ The sand and pebbled rocks were sun-warm under his bare feet as he traversed the quiet shoreline. A snow-capped mountain loomed beautiful and imposing above the crystal lake, and the woods behind the shore were full of cheerful birdsong. The azure sky was spattered with fluffy white clouds which whirled and shifted in the gentle breeze. He was sure that if he reached high enough, he could grab those cotton-spun clouds, feel their softness under his palm before they dissipated back to water droplets to sprinkle the earth, to make their way back to the lake, and then once more into the sky for him to pull down and hold against his chest again. The air around him was clean and fresh, with just enough chill to make simple breathing invigorate his entire body with renewed energy. His mind was as clear as the lake, as happy as the birdsong, and as warm as the sand. He stooped to splash his face with the cold water. As the water rained from his face, he caught sight of a man up the shoreline, stumbling from the woods. The sun glinted off his black hair and fair skin, his earth-toned garments hung loose enough around his frame to hide his bones, but not the assumed slenderness of his figure. He too made his way to the lake, splashing the earth’s life force onto himself until the droplets clung to his dark lashes like tears. He reminded him of a bathing raven. He called to him, the wind carrying his quiet voice to the dark-haired man so as to not disturb the tranquility of the place around them. The man startled and froze him with eyes as blue as the sky and as deep as the lake. _

_ “How did you get here?” the man asked, his face darkening. _

_ He laughed, reaching for a pebble to skid across the lake’s surface, rippling the otherwise calm waters. “This is my escape,” he said. “My home away from home. I have never seen you here before.” _

_ “This is my escape too,” the raven boy said. “I have never seen you here either.” _

_ “Then perhaps we should come together more often,” he said. The raven boy gave him a funny look and he handed him a stone to throw. “What is your name?” _

_ “My name?” the raven boy asked, as though he were surprised a stranger would want to know him by name. He placed the stone back on the shore with its brothers. _

_ He laughed good-naturedly, skipping another stone across the water. “Yes, your name. If you don’t have one I shall have to make one up for you. I could call you Alfred, or Edward. Noble names for a nobleman such as yourself.” _

_ The man frowned. “I am not a nobleman,” he said. _

_ “Well you look a nobleman, and that is all that really matters to them anyway.” _

_ The laugh that he earned made him pleased. “Or perhaps your name is Morrigan, for you look like a raven to me.” _

_ “Or perhaps my name is Merlin, and you should call me thus.” _

_ “And I am Arthur,” he said and smiled. He handed Merlin another stone before taking one for himself. The sun was descending beneath the horizon, casting the mountain and lake in brilliant golden light and throwing the woods into shadow. Arthur threw the rock and it skipped, once, twice, thrice, before it gave itself up to the waters. _

_ Merlin frowned at him. He did that a lot. Arthur liked him better when he laughed. “Why must you disturb the lake? What purpose does throwing stones at her achieve but sore arms and a smaller shore?”  _

_ “This is our cycle, the lake and I. I give her the only thing I can; I give her pebbles and rocks and in return, she gives them back. Maybe one day she will give me back an oyster with a beautiful pearl inside, so that I may give her that as well. Maybe she’ll give me two so I can share one with you. She’s generous like that.” _

_ Merlin stared at him, and then at the rock in his hand, the one which Arthur had given him. He sighed. “You are a strange man, Arthur, with even stranger ideas. What makes you think you know the Earth?” _

_ “She is my oldest friend,” Arthur admitted. “She has always been there when I needed her; to feed and clothe me, to hold and comfort me. She knows me better than anyone, and I am still learning from her.” _

_ “She is my oldest friend too,” Merlin said quietly. He carefully threw the stone, and it landed with a ‘plop’ to sink heavily beneath the ripples it created.  _

_ Arthur smiled at him. “Perhaps that is why we found each other here. We are alike.” _

_ Merlin looked thoughtfully at him. “Perhaps we shall see if that is true. For now, I must go. It is almost time for waking.” _

_ “Goodbye then, Merlin Morrigan. Until we meet again.” _

_ - _

The birdsong filtering through the thin tent walls woke Arthur from his slumber. He breathed the air in deeply and stretched his muscles, effectively waking his body up to start the day. A part of him was already awake, and Arthur stared glumly at his full cock, Emrys’ words from the night before echoing in his ear and rattling around in his head.  _ You will not touch yourself _ . Arthur snorted to himself. If that man thought he was able to order Arthur against a human’s basest nature, he was in for a disappointment. Arthur listened to the activity outside the tent, making sure he wasn’t likely to be disturbed, before gleefully thrusting a hand down his trousers. He palmed himself readily and bit back a moan at the touch on his feverish member. He shivered with the need for immediate release, and wasting no time, he pumped himself mercilessly until he spilled his seed in his hand. He was breathing heavily but had managed not to make a noise so as to alert someone to him. Once calmed, he stashed himself away and glanced around for something with which to wipe his hand, but to no avail. Sighing, Arthur licked his palm and fingers clean, scrunching his nose up in distaste. It wasn’t as though he’d never tasted his release before - he was sure all boys had been to curious to resist the action in adolescence - and he really didn’t mind the bitter, slightly saltiness of semen, but the predicament of being forced to lick it up to remove evidence of his nature to avoid surely some form of punishment reminded him of his own prepubescent and teenage years; hiding the pillow covers within his wardrobe with the soiled nightshirts until he was able to take care of the mess himself, lest one of the laundry maids see the stains and laugh. Arthur hated being laughed at. 

The tent flap rustled, announcing the arrival of Freya. She sniffed the air, wrinkling her petite nose like a rabbit while taking in the stink of sweat and sex that permeated the atmosphere of the tent, before rolling her eyes.

_ " _ Emrys was kind enough to take the enchantment from your eyes early this morning. He's gone to see the Great Dragon again. You're to work with William today, preparing meals."

That sounded almost fun, and it was once more something Arthur was fully accustomed to. He would often aid the knights charged with meal preparation while they were away from Camelot. The monotonous ritual of chopping and stirring was soothing after a skirmish and he looked forward to the mindless task. He hoped would be able to prove to Will that not all royals sat on their thrones all day. He was more than willing to work for his bread, or in this case, make it himself. 

He nodded his consent to Freya, not that he had any real control of the situation, and followed her out. There was a small group gathered around the large table in the center of camp, washing vegetables, curing meats, and chatting. Their conversation ceased when they caught sight of Arthur but he ignored the silence and walked straight towards Will.

"What would you like me to do?" He asked.

Will seemed amused by his eagerness to help, his eyebrow raising and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "There are potatoes and carrots needing to be peeled. Start with those."

As Arthur steadily worked through a pile of washed vegetables and starch, the conversations around him slowly crept back in, decidedly leaving him out of them. Arthur didn’t mind; it’s not like he had much to say on matters of gossip even among his own knights, but he always listened. The most prudent information was usually given among comfort, although Arthur wasn’t sure what he was hoping to hear. William periodically checked up on his work, sending him none-too-subtle glances at his decreasing load before giving him more to do, making sure Arthur’s hands were never idle. When there were no more carrots to peel and slice, and the potatoes were cooking in the large pot over the fire, William took him aside. 

“Hunith is going to show you how to make dough. She’s a gentle lass, so if I hear you’ve been rough with her… let’s just say it’ll be the last bit of bread you ever see, ta?” 

Arthur tried not to roll his eyes at the empty threat, nodding his head slowly instead. The gesture seemed good enough for Will, as he indicated Arthur should follow him. He led him to a large, open tent, inside which were rows of benches and wooden tables. Several druids were congregated, sprinkling the tables with flour and kneading the dough with practiced ease. One man simply twirled his fingers, his eyes flashing a dull gold, and the dough separated into three even sections before it began braiding itself. Arthur almost gasped at the blatant display of magic, but knowing any outburst would be unwelcome, he kept the surprise to himself. He wondered how many of those in the camp had magical abilities, aside from Freya, Mordred, and Emrys. 

A middle-aged woman waved at them, her face breaking into a light smile. “Good morning, William. I see you’ve brought me an extra set of hands.”

“Yes, ma’am. And you know to call me Will.”

“And you know not to call me ma’am,” she replied, causing Will to laugh. She turned her attention to Arthur. “Now, what’s your name, dear?” 

“I’m Arthur, ma’am,” he said. 

“Oh, please. Call me Hunith,” she said. 

Arthur looked her in the face and was startled by the calmness he saw. He had no doubt this woman had known who he was, but she chose to extend a branch of kindness to him anyway. The variance of dispositions he was met with truly was confusing, and Arthur was surprised he was met with any form of kindness at all. He was a Pendragon, after all, and these people were druids. It should be in their blood to hate him for his father’s sins, as it should be in his to hate them for his father. Yet when he looked at Hunith, he couldn’t help the image of his mother from invading his mind’s eye. Although he had never met her, he had always imagined her face to be as gentle and serene as the one before him. Although shorter than him by a whole head, Hunith exuded protective energy, making Arthur feel safe in her presence.

  
“Come, Arthur,” she said, holding out her hand to him. He took it without thinking, slipping her small hand into his larger calloused one and letting her lead him to a table. “First, we need to make the dough. Have you ever made bread before, Arthur?”

Arthur shook his head.

“No, I suppose not,” Hunith said. A blush crept up Arthur’s neck, but she smiled warmly at him. “Don’t worry, dear, we’ll teach you. You’ll have many new skills when you leave us. I can only hope you’ll kindle them. I know for me, baking has always been like meditation. It’s my own special kind of magic. We all have that here, in some form or another,” she winked at him.

Arthur couldn’t help his confusion. “What do you mean?” 

She began sprinkling flour in an earthenware bowl, mixing it periodically with water. “Everyone has their own magic, dear. Even you. The trick is finding it. I may not be able to call the dragons or change the weather, but my bread is the best there is, and that’s good enough for me.”

“How do you find your magic?” Arthur asked her. He couldn’t help but wonder if he had a little magic too if he had a talent he hadn’t discovered yet.

“You explore, you learn, and it will find you in its own time. Now, pass me that rosemary oil, would you?”

After Arthur had learned a basic recipe Hunith made him practice on his own. “Nothing builds a skill better than a hands-on approach,” she said. Arthur made a right mess of his first attempt, the dough turning to soupy mush beneath his hands, and no amount of flour helped to stiffen it. The second batch rose too quickly, overflowing the bowl and bubbling over the side before he had time to notice. It tasted sour, like too much leavening agent. His third try turned out remarkably well until he burned it to a crisp when he accidentally dropped it into the coals of the woodstove. He blamed the redness on his face to the high heat from the fire, but Hunith hadn’t laughed at him. She simply smiled and showed him how to place the loaves on the large flat wooden shovel, dusting the surface with cornflour so the dough didn’t stick too badly. By the time his fourth attempt made it out of the oven, Arthur was exhausted but exuberant. Hunith had laughed at him then, good-naturedly. She insisted they share the loaf amongst the workers so they could taste his first success. The crust was perfectly golden and the inside was light and airy. Hunith gave him a slice with goat’s butter seasoned with rosemary (Arthur learned it was her favorite herb), and Arthur swore he had never tasted anything as good. Hunith took his hand and squeezed it, whispering how proud she was of his progress.

“But I only made one loaf, and I’ve wasted so many resources,” he tried to reason with her. “It is not a success worth celebrating.”

“Every success is worth celebrating,” she admonished him gently. “And we learn more from failure than success. You cannot expect to get things right on the first attempt. Everything good in life takes patience and practice. It’s better to learn that lesson baking bread than anywhere else!”

When she said it like that, he couldn’t help but believe her. 

\---

Mordred came to collect him when the sun sunk below the treeline, casting the forest in shades of purples, reds, and oranges. Arthur saud good night to Hunith, who pulled him gently to her breast and made him promise to bake with her again. Arthur agreed without hesitation, and couldn’t help the loss he felt when she let him go, waving him off as she took another loaf from the oven. They walked back to Arthur’s tent in comfortable silence. Mordred followed him inside and asked him jokingly, 

“So, do you prefer chopping wood or vegetables?” 

“Wood, honestly, but between you and I, I much prefer baking bread!” Arthur laughed.

“Everyone does,” Mordred said. “Except Emrys, he never has been able to cook. Burned more loaves than you did on his first try. Hunith told him he’s not allowed in the bread tent again. Almost chopped his finger off making stew one time.”

Arthur was surprised. “For such a great and powerful warlock, he sure sounds clumsy.”

“Well, we all have our talents,” Mordred said. “I suppose the Earth decided he needed to balance out.”

They both laughed, and for the first time since leaving Camelot, Arthur felt as light as the fresh bread he’d made. The feeling made guilt rise like bile in his throat, and Arthur choked on the laughter. He had no right to joke with these people, he had no right to feel as though he belonged here with them. He was a prisoner, shackled by their kindness and feasting on meat and mead, but a prisoner nonetheless. Mordred must have sensed the change, for the gaze he fixed Arthur with turned sad. 

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I wish we had met under better circumstances.”

“I’m not sure that would have been possible,” Arthur replied, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping through his voice like acid dripping from his lips. “You are a druid, and I am a Pendragon. There is nothing to be done.”

“You should not resign yourself so easily to a fate that does not suit you.”

“Do not give false hope where there is none, Mordred,” a familiar voice said from the entrance. Arthur looked up quickly, but all he saw was blackness. Arthur cursed loudly, stumbling in disorientation, only to be caught by surprisingly strong arms, inhaling the scent of honey and mint. 

“Let go of me!” he cried, wrenching himself from the intoxicating scent, stomach roiling with nausea and lust. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground. There were no strong arms to help him this time.

“Pendragon is right. His fate was sealed with his name, his birthright is our downfall.”

Mordred sighed, long and heavy, but he did not attempt to argue. “Good night, Emrys.”

Arthur heard the tent rustle and knew he was alone with his captor. Hatred and shame bubbled up from within him, his breathing turning ragged at the struggle to reign in his temper. The events of the evening came back full-force, and Arthur tried not to gag as Emrys spoke.

"Good evening, Pendragon." His voice was low, almost a murmur. He sounded almost apologetic, but Arthur pointedly ignored him. When it was clear he wouldn’t get a response, he continued on. "I trust you slept well. A hard day’s labor is quite adept at ensuring that."

He snapped, rising to his feet as gracefully as he could manage. He stared at the spot from which Emrys' voice spoke to him, snarling in the direction he hoped the man stood as he said, "so does the shame of molestation!"

Emrys was quiet for a long moment, seeming to judge his words carefully. Arthur counted backward from ten in his head, his hands flexing into fists at his side, wanting nothing more than to meet flesh and bone to ease the ache in his stomach. When Emrys spoke again, his voice was as hard as steel and just as sharp. "What I'm doing, I'm doing to ensure the safety of my people. Would you not do the same?"

"There are lines I would never cross. You have taken from me that which I would never take from my worst enemy. There are more moral ways to break a man."

"Then perhaps you should just give in."

Arthur sobbed unwittingly. "Don't you understand? That's worse! I'm your prisoner, Emrys, all I have is my pride. Now I have nothing, I am nothing, and the only redemption I have is my silence."

"Then this truly will be torture for you, for I will not stop until you tell me the answers I seek."

“Then I shall die with them.”

Emrys sighed heavily, and Arthur could practically feel him rubbing his temples in frustration. “How many times do you need to be told that I do not intend to kill you? You’re of no use to me dead, so stop being so dramatic. All I want is the information to keep my family out of Uther’s grasp. He’s done enough damage to my people, and I would sooner die than let him lay a finger on a single person in this village ever again. I simply want your cooperation. I’m not asking for the secrets of the state.”

“What you ask, I cannot give. Information on the King’s plans  _ are _ secrets of the state and if I gave you anything of substance I would be thrown in jail for treason. Surely you must know this.”

“You’re the crowned prince of Camelot; Uther’s only son and heir. I doubt he’d lock you up for anything less than consorting with sorcerers.” 

Arthur was about to retort before he understood what Emrys had said, and the apparent change in his mood. “Was… that supposed to be a joke?”

“It was meant to be an acknowledgment of your point.”

“Don’t mock me.”

Emrys sighed again. “Why is everything with you a fight?”

“Because,” Arthur replied. 

He felt the slightest pang of guilt because really, the druids had been nothing but kind to him. They saved him from the slave trader and healed his wounds, and even though he was technically a prisoner, he was being treated like one of their own with few exceptions. They treated him as an equal and that was something he’d never encountered before. He was always above the station of everyone else and being bowed to - his shoes shined and his opinions catered to - or he was beneath his father, being looked down upon and treated like manure. Even last night with Emrys hadn’t been all bad; in fact, Arthur never recalled feeling so good regardless of not being allowed to come. The experience wasn’t malicious, it had felt almost comfortable. There was no judgment from Emrys, there was no ire or disgust at touching another man and bringing him pleasure. As horrible as the situation was, being with Emrys had felt right somehow, almost as if his presence was a balm soothing Arthur into contentment even as his hands brought a need with no end in sight. If Arthur was honest with himself, which he tried seldom to be, he would admit that he had held his tongue on the harmless questions just to see what Emrys would do. He longed to know what he was capable of. He wanted to open himself up and invite Emrys inside, and that scared him. 

“Because,” Arthur tried again, “fighting is all I know.”

His whole life he had been a weapon of perfect destruction in the hands of Uther, even as he fought against the man. He was tired of fighting his father, tired of fighting himself.  _ Fighting is my magic,  _ he realized.  _ That’s all I have, it’s all I’ll ever have.  _

“Then try something new.”

“Why don’t you just have your way with me and be done with it!”

Emrys’ voice dipped dangerously low when he said, “Oh no, Pendragon. You see, even I have standards.”

Arthur was once more about to retort when felt the magic in his skin, forcing him to his knees. It zipped through his blood like fire, igniting a spark in his belly and bringing heat to his cheeks. He gasped as the power of it coursed through his very marrow, almost as if it was a part of him. Gentle but firm hands gripped his chin, turning his face upwards, long fingers curling themselves around his face. Even though he couldn’t see, Arthur closed his eyes against the feeling of powerlessness. He memorized what those hands felt like, using the information of his senses to gather whatever details about this man as he could without his sight. 

“Don’t worry, Arthur,” Emrys spoke in a murmur, his breath ghosting over Arthur’s closed eyelids and cheeks, only to be breathed into Arthur’s own open mouth. “That is one virtue that I will not take without consent. I’ll only fuck you when you beg me for it.”

Arthur wanted to scream, he wanted to fight, but his arms hung uselessly at his sides. “I never beg.”

Emrys chuckled, dark and low into Arthur’s ear. “We’ll see about that. Tell me, why did you find us?”

Arthur laughed without humor, knowing his torture had officially begun. He opened his eyes, his frustration fuelled by his lack of sight. “Since it doesn’t really matter, I’ll tell you. I was on personal holiday, the last I’d see as a free man since my father has decided it’s time I find the next queen. I was running from my destiny for as long as I could because I know it will never change. Marriage, an heir, succession to the throne. That’s all I was born for. Does that answer satisfy you?”

“Oh, how unfortunate,” he said, his voice betraying a sneer. “Born into privilege, never needing to work, and all you have to do is get married, have sex, and run a kingdom. My heart is breaking for you, Pendragon, truly.”

Arthur angrily shook the hands from his face, curling his lip in a snarl. "You mocked me once, don't do it again! Do you think I have no burdens? That my life is perfect, simple, and easy? It is anything but." He laughed then, anger coiling in his vocal cords and choking him. "But you don't really care, so why bother with words?"

“Be careful, Crowned Prince, or one might think you were eager for it. Did you miss my hand already?”

“You think too highly of yourself, Emrys,” he sneered back. “I’ve had a better hand job from a stable hand.” His confidence faltered when the laces of his trousers loosened.

“And are you unable to attain them from higher company? I must say I’m surprised the ladies of the court aren’t making fools of themselves in the hopes of your wealth.” 

Arthur was laid back non-to-gently on the plush furs, his head hitting them hard enough he was surprised he didn’t feel the force of the ground. His arms were forced above his head and held to the ground, much like the last time. All the while, his breeches rolled from his hips, untucking his shirt. He already felt more exposed than previously but he tried not to let his nerves show. Any sign of weakness and he knew Emrys would exploit it. But he couldn’t help the gasp when a warm hand snuck under his shirt, racking it up to expose his defined chest. Arthur knew he was fit but he couldn’t help but be curious of what Emrys’ face looked like, seeing him like this. He got his answer when strong legs straddled him, grinding down on him as his fingers found a nipple and rolled it between them. Arthur almost shouted at the harsh stimulation. No one had ever touched him there before, and he’d never been in a position like this. Fumbling around with stable hands in the privacy of an empty horse stall paled in comparison to this kind of treatment. 

As those hips ground down on him again, his brain short-circuited and he found himself saying, “If I wanted a maiden, I’d have one.”

“I see,” Emrys said, bringing his face closer to Arthur’s chest. He nuzzled his face into the coarse golden hair and licked a broad stripe up his sternum. “Then I suppose I’m not the only one who would prefer knights to the fairer sex.”

With that, he took one of Arthur’s nipples into his mouth, sucking and grazing the nub between his teeth until it pebbled. When he pulled back gently, his teeth still clasped around the bud, Arthur tried to follow him, his back arching so as to lessen the strain. He bit his lip, trying not to make another sound. Emrys released him, stroking his hand up Arthur’s side, cupping his peck before diving back down to give the second nipple the same treatment. His hips ground down against Arthur’s, and Arthur was ashamed to find himself hardening impossibly fast. He shuddered beneath Emrys, his breaths coming fast and short. For the first time, he felt afraid. Not of Emrys, not of being tortured like this, but by becoming aroused by it in spite of - or perhaps because of- the situation itself. They had barely gotten started and Arthur already wanted to tell Emrys anything the man fancied just so that he wouldn’t stop. It had been so long since his body had felt this good, and his spirit broke knowing it wouldn’t last.

Perhaps sensing the change in Arthur, Emrys took his face between his palms again. “You could let yourself enjoy this. There’s no shame in it.” He took one of Arthur’s hands, bringing it to his own cock which matched Arthur’s in hardness. “See? I’m enjoying myself too.”

“What would be the point of enjoying it if it’s going to end the same as before?” Arthur ground out from between his teeth.

“You could change that,” he said, grinding down particularly hard, causing Arthur to gasp, his hips stuttering up of their own accord. “Tell me what Uther is planning.”

Arthur bit his lip, forcing himself quiet. Emrys moved off of him, his hands running down his sides, his hips, settling on pushing his thighs open so that the man could fit between them. Even suspecting what was coming, Arthur was ill-prepared for the feeling of the wet heat that engulfed his aching member. His hips thrust up uselessly against Emry’s firm hold on him, and he could do nothing but twist the thick coarse furs in his fist as Emrys began to slowly sink his mouth down, sucking gently. He tongued the vein on the underside of the shaft in his mouth and Arthur wanted to scream when he lifted up and ran his tongue through the slit at the head. Emrys continued as his task of making Arthur come undone, but as soon as he got close enough, Emrys moved off, cupping his balls and asking him the same question. Over and over, again and again, until Arthur was close to insanity. He no longer tried to contain the sounds that fell from his lips, the near screams that left him every time Emrys staved him off of the cliff. He sobbed he swore, he called him every dirty name he could think of, but he never answered the question. He didn’t know how. It was true that his father had heard of a druid camp within his borders, but the knights had never been able to find its location. Arthur knew that if he ever returned to Camelot, Uther would launch a full attack and he would not rest until the camp was found and the people obliterated. Was that really what Emrys wanted to hear? It was nothing the man didn’t already assume, surely. So Arthur wouldn’t say. 

After being brought to the edge more times than he knew, Emrys said, “this is your last chance, Pendragon. Tell me what Uther is planning for my people, or you will spend the morrow unsatisfied.”

“I can’t, I can’t,” Arthur repeated, openly weeping. “I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”

Emrys rose and took Arthur by the feet. Arthur kicked and screamed, but Emrys dragged him away from the warmth of the furs and onto the cold dirt floor before once again dousing him with freezing water. 

“Me too,” he said. 

He left Arthur shivering on the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who may not know, Llamrei (in English, "lamb-rye" but in Welsh, it's more like "hlam-rye" with a hissing h), was the mare King Arthur rode according to the Welsh tale by the title of Culhwch and Olwen. The stallion's name was Hengroen, but I feel that gets more use so I opted for the mare.


End file.
